


A Picture Of Molly Hooper

by queenofaforeignland



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, BBC, Canon LGBTQ Female Character, Closeted Character, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Female Protagonist, Female-Centric, Gay, Johnlock - Freeform, LESBIAN AF, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Character, Love, M/M, Multi, POV Female Character, Romance, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, mollrene, molly is smol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:42:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofaforeignland/pseuds/queenofaforeignland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this is very loosely based off of Oscar Wilde's "A Picture of Dorian Gray" except with more lesbians.  Really just an excuse to write some molly/irene pov (bc they're such a cute couple) and play around with victorian notions of sexual identity.  warning: things may get a little wilde...</p><p>Irene Adler, an old acquaintance of famous Victorian painter Sherlock Holmes, glimpses his latest portrait of a beautiful and youthful Molly Hooper.  Instantly fascinated by the face she sees on canvas, Irene forces Sherlock to introduce the two of them, and so begins a precarious and intense relationship that may be seen as corruptive by some Victorian standards.  As the two women struggle to reconcile their growing romantic interest with the stifling conservatism of the era, Molly realizes that the original portrait, which Sherlock painted, reveals almost supernaturally the very nature of her heart that she would like to keep hidden.</p><p>Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the characters or content from BBC's Sherlock. The characters in this work are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this piece. This work of fiction is for entertainment purposes only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Irene Adler first encounters Molly Hooper in Canvas Form

Chapter One

Irene Adler could not explain exactly what had led her to the studio of Sherlock Holmes on a bitterly cold morning towards the conclusion of autumn. As she made her graceful way inside his foyer, shaking the residual rain droplets from her coat, and summoning up an attractive sort of smile for the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, Irene wondered vaguely what had seemed so pressing that she had been willing to walk the extra four blocks to visit a man she had not seen in some months. They had been involved briefly—it was true, although Irene had no interest in rekindling anything that may have once existed between them. 

It was not that she disliked Holmes. In fact, the pale man, with his striking black curls and intense sea-green gaze, had been an object of fascination of hers for some time. He was arrogant, but Irene suspected his superiority complex was tightly wrapped around some tremendous emotional insecurity, a fact that made her protective of him more than anything else. 

The thing that had really struck her about Holmes upon their first meeting, at a dinner party of a mutual acquaintance a little over a year ago, was his intelligence, the keen way that he could look at a person and then rattle off a list of deductions about their personal lives. He seemed to be able to know a person just by looking at them. 

It was this ability to observe and understand entirely without judgment or moral projection, which made him such a powerful artist. Sherlock Holmes was the pre-eminent portraitist in England, and perhaps all of Europe. 

He was famous for his ability to spend a moment looking at his subject, usually some wealthy patron who had commissioned him, and then rendering their perfect likeness upon a previously blank canvas. He seemed to capture the very essence of those who sat for him in the way that he worked them into shadow or illuminated them with brighter colors, in the details of their dress and the nuances of their expression.

It was a good thing that Sherlock’s portraits were very much in fashion among the elite of London society, because his personality was not. Irene had to repress a slight smile at the memory of how Holmes had once rendered one aging patron, who had commissioned Sherlock to paint a picture of his much younger wife, completely irate. He had implied that the girl had been having an affair—a fact that he had deduced from the state of her ring finger. 

Yes she sighed to herself, as she followed Mrs. Hudson farther down the corridor into the familiar parlor room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes is a fascinating creature indeed. Tempestuous of disposition, and entirely too obsessed with his own intellectual prowess, but God, the man can paint. 

Although they had been publically seeing each other for a time the previous summer, their relationship had hardly moved beyond the realms of the platonic in private. As much as Irene admired Sherlock, and vice versa, it was not, unfortunately, in the nature of either of them to fall in love with the other. 

Irene had known what Sherlock was within an hour of meeting him. She could tell by the way his eyes looked her over only once, with vague indifference before turning almost hungrily to a blondish, shorter man with kind eyes in the corner, who was absorbed in returning Sherlock’s fervent glances. She could tell by the way his gaze trailed after this certain male acquaintance, Dr. John Watson, almost against his will. 

Irene could recognize that Sherlock Holmes was in love with a man not only because she could discern love when she saw it, but also because she had been characterized by a similar although inverse predisposition for her entire life. The fact that she preferred the gentler sex was not something Irene could publicize without tearing apart her reputation and making a mockery of her families’ position at the echelons of British society, but it did not make it any less true. 

Irene rarely dabbled with men, and when she did it was only for the sake of appearance. The current climate in London was not particularly hospitable to those who preferred the company of their own sex, a fact both Irene and Sherlock were all too aware of.

And so the two had started courting, not out of any romantic interest, but rather out of necessity. Although neither had ever acknowledged the preferences of the other explicitly, even at the conclusion of their fake relationship, it was a fact that had never needed to be voiced. After all, Sherlock had a way of knowing people just by looking at them, and Irene was incredibly perceptive herself. 

“I wasn’t expecting you”, a terse, cold, and altogether familiar deep voice pulled Irene from her thoughts. Sherlock Holmes sat before her in a large leather armchair, his jet-black curls falling loosely across his forehead, those keen, penetrating eyes on hers. In his large white hands he clutched a yellowing skull, and leaning against one of his knees was a medium sized canvas with its front facing away from Irene. 

“Oh, Sherlock darling, aren’t you pleased at all to see me? It’s been so long since we’ve even exchanged letters, and I must admit I’ve missed your style of trenchant prose”, Irene flashed him a particularly charming smile as she spoke, voice so low it was almost a purr. 

In response, Sherlock let out an irritated sigh, and let his gaze travel along the course of her body. It was not an improper look—Sherlock’s eyes were far too clinical as he took her in. He was one of the few men that Irene tolerated these kind of looks from, although being as unnaturally lovely as she was, she received her fair share of glances. 

“I can tell from the state of your dress, the mud at the hem of your cloak, and the dirt that clings to your slippers, that it is still raining outside, and that because you were clearly caught unprepared for the storm, this visit was perhaps unplanned—a detour scheduled on a whim? Yes, but something urgent enough that you braved the rain unprepared for the downpour, in shoes that are now no doubt unsalvageable. So tell me, what has transpired to bring The Woman back to my place of inspiration?”

“Can’t a woman visit an old friend without an ulterior motive?” she baited him carefully, knowing that her feigned secretiveness would draw him farther out of his shell. To be completely honest, Irene could not exactly articulate what had brought her back to Sherlock Holmes. There had been a feeling, cold and all consuming, which had driven her to the familiar studio. It was almost a kind of anxiety, a nervous energy that had worked its way through her and refused to give her up until she turned her feet towards Baker Street. 

“Yes, but you are not any old woman, are you?”

“No, perhaps I am not”, and then because she knew it would only serve to infuriate him, she changed the subject, “Is that your latest?”. 

She motioned with a graceful flick of her wrist to the canvas leaning haphazardly against Sherlock’s leg. For the first time since her arrival, Sherlock’s eyes left Irene’s slender form, and darted to the painting. He bit his lip, unconsciously, Irene guessed. She could tell by the way his fingers trembled slightly as he held the skull, that he was in sudden need of his pipe. 

Her interest peaked, Irene gazed harder at Sherlock, hoping to discern in the slight downturn of his lips, or in the pre-occupation of his eyes, what exactly about this painting had him so distracted. Finding no answers there, she glanced around the studio, the various wooden easels standing erect and rickety in the corners, the paintbrushes and jars of turpentine, the blank canvases, and hundreds of charcoal sketches, the tubes of paint that crowded every available surface. She knew that among the various sketches she could probably discern her own face, and even more commonly the face and hands and feet and back of John Watson. 

“Sherlock, I’ll tell you why I’m here if you tell me what has you so tightly coiled”. Irene made her voice softer and if possible, even more seductive than it usually was. Her curiosity was fully fledged now, and she could barely keep herself from running across the room and tearing the canvas from where it rested against Sherlock. She needed to see it with her own eyes

“You and I both know that you have no logical reason for being here. This was probably just another of your compulsions, one of those darker urges to which you are so disposed”, his lips quirked in an altogether unfriendly smile, and suddenly he was on his feet, the canvas clasped protectively to his chest. Irene felt herself angering almost against her will, as she watched him hold the picture up and gaze at it himself, all without allowing her a glance. 

“So it’s a picture of your Doctor Watson, then. No need to show me, I’m sure it’s entirely improper”, she flashed him a caustic smile as she teased and allowed herself a tinkle of sadistic laughter. Irene hoped her goading would force Sherlock to prove her wrong. 

For a moment, Irene wondered if she had perhaps gone too far, but Sherlock only smiled sardonically and shook his head. He bit his lip again, and his eyes roved restlessly about the room. She realized with a flash of anticipation that he was struggling with himself. She almost laughed at his predictability. Sherlock may have been a kind of genius, but genius always craved an audience. She held her tongue and waited patiently, realizing that Sherlock had always intended to show her his piece though he had played at being coy. 

At last, he said quietly, “It’s not John”. 

Irene resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the way that Sherlock’s voice went down an octave as he uttered John’s name. He always spoke the Doctor’s name like a prayer, the obvious fool. 

“Her name is Hooper. Molly Hooper. And she’s something quite unexpected”. Sherlock allowed himself another glance down at the portrait before continuing, “I met her at a party, one of Mycroft’s soirees. I saw her and was quite taken in”.

Irene was not surprised by Sherlock’s obvious admiration for the girl. Although Sherlock was clearly gay, many of his muses through the months she had known him had been female. 

“Apparently, I’ve met her before. She’s been to many of Mycroft’s parties—apparently he’s friends with her father. Anyways, I must have encountered her a couple of times when she was just a child. I never noticed her then however, I suppose she hadn’t yet become anything special or else I would have…” Sherlock trailed off, his eyes transfixed on what Irene guessed was the girl’s painted image. 

“Do show me then”, Irene moved closer to where Sherlock hovered at the edge of the room. After a delicate pause, Sherlock pivoted the canvas so that Irene could finally look upon his latest work.

Her breath caught in her throat, and all of the words seemed to dry up on her tongue. The girl was beautiful in the same way that Irene supposed herself to be—almost otherworldly and ethereal. She had dark hair tied back in an elegant chignon, although Sherlock had painted a few tendrils loose so that they framed her pale, angular face. Her eyes were wide and expressive, and her pink rosebud lips slightly parted. There was something burning in her look though that caught Irene off guard. Even for one of Sherlock’s portraits, which were known for their vitality and intensity, this girl seemed to exude a kind of wildness behind the tame silk and taffeta gown, the ribbons which were almost like fetters in her hair. 

“Ah. I should have known you might like her”. Sherlock shook his head unhappily, and jerked the portrait back against his chest, as if to conceal it from Irene’s glance. 

Suddenly finding her voice again, Irene almost choked in an effort to get her words out, “Sherlock, don’t be a fool. Let me see it again. You’ve done such a lovely job, I feel as though I know her just looking at her likeness”. She hoped by flattering him she might distract him from how the portrait had affected her. Almost against her will she felt her fingers extend towards the canvas as though to pull it back. 

And then as an afterthought, “Please, Sherlock, you must introduce us. I feel as though I have to meet her”. She tried to keep her voice low and casual, so as not to awaken too much suspicion in the painter. 

“Absolutely not. What kind of man would I be if I let a creature as good and untainted as her near your imperfect perversion?”, Sherlock’s face seemed for a moment too full of animosity and vague anxiety to read. 

“How dare you? You have no right, being as you are”, Irene felt herself flush with shame and hurt. Never before had Sherlock made such a blatant reference to her sexuality. She felt for a moment terribly confused. 

“She’s young, and from a good family. You already have a reputation, a reputation I helped you remedy somewhat by allowing you to masquerade as my romantic interest”. 

In her anger, Irene assumed a mask of cool collectedness and scorn. She even managed a condescending look as she murmured the words, “Sherlock Holmes, I cannot believe that you have come to embody such hypocrisy. Your love for the good Dr. Watson has always been more important than reputation—“, before he cut her off again. 

“Besides, she’s my muse, and I can only use her as long as she is representative of Beauty in its highest and purest form. Beauty like that can never be possessed like you want to possess it or else it looses it’s appeal. I don’t want you anywhere near her”.

Irene was already forming a retort when the buzzer sounded from down the hall, and the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s scurrying footsteps interrupted them. From their place in the studio, Irene and Sherlock listened as the door hinges, clearly not oiled for some time, creaked as the door swung open. 

“Oh, Miss Hooper! How lovely it is to see you again. Sherlock will be so pleased! He’s got some company but you must come in at once”, Mrs. Hudson’s warm, inviting voice echoed down the corridor, and for the first time that afternoon, Irene felt as though she finally understood why she had felt the need to come to Sherlock’s studio that afternoon.


	2. In Which Molly Sits for Another Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay guys, this is a chapter from Molly's pov. hope you enjoy!

Molly let out a ragged breath as she left the damp, frigid outside air for the warmth of Sherlock’s studio. Her cheeks were flushed from the chill of the street, and her long, dark hair hung in glossy tendrils down her back. Her eyes were bright and fiery as they took in the darkened hall, and Mrs. Hudson’s somewhat hunched form. 

“Oh, Miss Hooper! How lovely it is to see you again. Sherlock will be so pleased! He’s got some company but you must come in at once”. Molly gave the aging woman a dazzling smile, pleased at how familiar the studio and its matron had become to her in the past few weeks. Sherlock had insisted that she come and pose every day. Although her grandfather had raised his eyebrows at such an obvious show of attention, Molly did not mind— in fact, she was rather fascinated by how Sherlock would arrange her on a dais and then, in the course of an afternoon, complete a dozen sketches, or else the beginnings of some oil portrait. 

More than that, she liked how she felt around Sherlock. He flattered her terribly. Although she got the feeling he had no particular romantic interest in her, Molly knew he appreciated her beauty in some complex and remarkable way. She had the sense that when he gazed at her he saw far inside her, finding things to admire that other people, and indeed Molly herself, may not have ever thought of. 

It was not until she had actually wandered down the hall and into the main room, that she recalled with a strange intensity that Mrs. Hudson had mentioned something about Sherlock having company. She glanced around, eyes automatically darting to where Sherlock stood strangely tense and imposing in the corner of the cramped room. 

After a brief moment, Molly noticed the woman standing only a yard or so away from Holmes. She had a marvelous face, Molly thought, the kind of classical beauty that reminded her of princesses she had read about in some of the old children’s books her mother had left her before she died. Her skin was pale, like milk or alabaster and, Molly could not help but noticing, her lips were almost criminally red. There was something in the eyes though, that drew her in entirely: they were lovely pale blue, like chips of ice, cold and flat. 

It took a moment for Molly to realize she had interrupted something. Sherlock, was shaking, his whole self moved by some extremity of emotion. 

She took in everything in a matter of moments, the rigid set of Sherlock’s shoulders, the way his head was bowed as if in defeat. The casual way that the woman leaned against one of the studio benches, her eyes fixated on Molly. 

“I trust you, Irene. Please do try to behave yourself”, he muttered through clenched teeth, his fingers clutching a canvas to his chest as Molly looked between him and the woman, curiosity roused. 

A strange thrill ran through Molly at the mention of the strange woman’s name, although she quickly stifled it. For some reason she felt as though she needed to guard herself—something about The Woman was vaguely familiar, and not in a good way. 

When Irene did not answer Sherlock, instead choosing to gaze intently at Molly, Sherlock let out something like a sigh. Molly, feeling the force of both of their gazes, clutched at some semblance of conversation, since Sherlock was clearly not making any move to make formal introductions. Her fingers reached out at random and fastened around the closest piece of parchment. She brought it to her face, and immediately recognized the façade of Bakers street in the delicate streaks of charcoal. 

“Sherlock, you must lend me some of these sketches. You have a way of capturing things in the most exquisite detail. They are perfectly charming.” She cried, infusing her voice with more enthusiasm than was necessary hoping to diffuse the tension. 

“That depends completely on how you pose for me today”, Sherlock answered at last, casting his eyes to the ground briefly, as though deep in thought. 

“What if I don’t want to sit for you today, Holmes? I think I must be quite tired of always posing for you. You get so terribly quiet when you work, and I have no one to talk to but myself”, Molly was conscious that she sounded childish, and she cursed herself for the note of a whine that had crept into her voice. She knew that she had the unfortunate habit of sounding younger than she was when she entered into uncomfortable social situations. Her grandfather upbraided her constantly for it, not that she had any control over such things. Remembering suddenly that there was someone else in the room with them, she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“I am so terribly sorry, Sherlock, I had quite forgotten for a moment you had someone with you”, and then turning to Irene, she managed a timid, “I do beg your pardon, Mademoiselle”. 

“Oh, I don’t believe you have anything to apologize Miss Hooper.” Irene’s voice had a very pleasing silkiness to it that made something in Molly expand in pleasure. It was a terribly odd sensation, and Molly felt as though she would like very much for Irene to speak again, just so that she could immerse herself in the languid lilt that came out of her throat like honey. 

The Woman extended a pale hand with long, delicate fingers for Molly to shake, and she did so with slight discomfort. 

“This is Irene Adler, Molly, an old friend of mine. I was just explaining to her how arresting you can be when you sit for me. Although it appears that may have spoken too soon”, his thin lips curled into a smile that was not altogether pleased. 

“Don’t be absurd, Sherlock. The girl doesn’t need to be artistically arranged for me to see how striking she is—“ Irene was suddenly cut off by Sherlock, who had made a strange sort of sound deep in his throat. His face revealed a profound discomfort.

Feeling slightly emboldened and uncertain after Irene’s compliment Molly let out a soft laugh, that came out sweet and attractive, “Don’t mind Mr. Holmes. When anything gets in the way of his art he becomes terribly resentful, don’t you Sherlock?’

With an amused smile, Irene’s glance once again landed on the supremely beautiful girl who had just arrived, “Tell me Miss Hooper, besides from posing for one of the most capital painters of the day, what is it that you do?”

Molly felt herself flush under the singularity of Irene’s look. She was used to people paying attention to her, having grown only more attractive with adolescence, but something about Irene made her distinctly uncomfortable. Her stomach seemed to plummet as she met the older woman’s eyes.

“I go to the club and volunteer a couple of times in a week, and sing duets with some of the other ladies or serve luncheons. My grandfather likes me to be seen doing good works, and I enjoy the charity”. Molly knew that this was the proper response. Nobody ever found fault in a charitable spirit, or at least that is what her grandfather and all the other women from church insisted. 

“I’ve only known you a moment, Molly, and I can already tell that you are far too charming for philanthropy”, although the words themselves seemed to conceal a kind of condescension, Molly detected a note of teasing in Irene’s voice. After a moment she allowed Irene a small careful smile. 

Sherlock signed loudly in irritation at the exchange and made to put the canvas he was still clutching aside. 

“Miss Adler, as absolutely delightful as this unexpected arrival of yours has been, I really do want to finish up a portrait I’ve been slaving over of Molly. Would you find it offensive if I asked you to leave?” Sherlock’s tone seemed to indicate that he cared very little whether or not Irene was offended or not.

Noticing the sudden flash of discontent that marred the Woman’s otherwise exquisite features, Molly found herself protesting without knowing exactly why, “Sherlock, please don’t drive her away. We’ve only just met, and besides I want to give her the chance to explain herself! I think I am perfectly cut out for philanthropy, as she calls it”. She gave the disgruntled painter her most hypnotic smile, and let her eyes light up as she glanced imploringly at him. 

After a moment, Sherlock expelled all the air from his cheeks and dipped his head in defeat, “Fine. If Miss Hooper desires it, Irene can stay. My muse must sit absolutely still though, are we quite clear?”

Molly nodded somberly to Sherlock as she assumed her usual place on the dais, allowing herself a moment to flash a sideways glance at Irene, who was staring back at her with raised eyebrows and a slightly surprised expression. The painter removed a great sheet from around another canvas, and revealed a partially completed painting that featured everything but Molly’s face. Irene took a seat to Molly’s left, careful not to couch herself too closely to the younger girl, who she felt she could not quite read yet. 

“Just as Molly was beginning to feel comfortable with those two sets of eyes transfixed upon her, Sherlock added, “And Molly, dear, do try to ignore anything Miss Adler tells you. She has a reputation for being a terrible influence, and girls like you are exactly her type”. 

Molly felt nothing but confusion as she glanced between the painter, who had resumed his painting, and Irene who was staring at Sherlock, her face devoid of blood and completely livid. After a moment, Irene merely bit her lip, and allowed her eyes to return to the girl sitting before her, and Molly tried to hide her perplexity behind a question.

“Are you really as terrible an influence as Sherlock seems to think, Miss Adler? Because you don’t seem too terribly dangerous to me” she tried to keep her voice light, even though the way Sherlock had spoken of Irene had seemed more serious than kidding. She felt her heart thudding queerly in her chest as she waited for the Woman to answer her. 

But it was Sherlock who answered for her, “Miss Hooper, the woman’s last name is literally a variety of poisonous snake. And I can assure you that Miss Adler’s personality is far more toxic to someone of your constitution than any actual viper could be”. 

Molly could not discern whether Sherlock was kidding or not, but it hardly mattered because Irene began to speak, and that voice had a strange way of transporting Molly outside of herself. 

“Molly, influence in any form is inherently immoral, because in influencing someone, one must give up impressions of their own soul. Say that I am influencing you somehow—in doing so I am changing how you might naturally go about existing. Any sins, or virtues that you pick up from me, would hardly be your own. To influence is to corrupt, to alter, and to pervert. Do you understand what I am saying?” Irene looked at the girl intently, and Molly had the impression that she was no longer embodied, as though she were flying through space or time. Perhaps not even existing. Irene had such a strange impact on her. 

“Yes, I suppose”, she whispered uncertainly, and then searching through her electrified thoughts she added, “I suppose that the greater crime is that influence allows people who are afraid of themselves to never have to become acquainted with who they actually are.” 

Irene’s face flickered with something like surprise, or else sudden interest, “Miss Hooper, you are a surprise. What makes you say such things?”

For a moment Molly was lost in thoughts of her Grandfather, the tyrannical man with broad, volatile hands and cruel blue eyes, who had always had a way of putting his words in her mouth, his thoughts in her head. Influence was such a terrifying thing, but at least it kept her from having to look at herself, acknowledge the ways in which she was naturally monstrous, just like the man who had raised her, and powerless, and foolish like her silly, wanton mother. 

“What are you thinking about?” Irene’s voice laced their way into Molly’s memories, and slowly she came back to herself. Molly didn’t want Irene to think she was weak, and she certainly didn’t want the Woman to pity her, which was what inevitably happened when outsiders came upon her slightly tragic family history.

But part of her also wanted to tell Irene everything. How she had been orphaned, and left in the care of a cruel, unbending man incapable of love. But that wasn’t safe. She shook herself mentally. How could she have even been thinking of spilling her life story to a perfect stranger, even a perfectly charming stranger like Irene? Irene, a woman who felt already more familiar to her than Sherlock had in their weeks of being acquainted. 

“Nothing. I wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, I’m sure”, the lie slipped out uncomfortably from between her thick rosebud lips. 

Irene moved closer to Molly, after glancing at Sherlock first to see that he was absorbed in his work. She allowed her mouth to graze the younger girl’s ear and whispered in a delightful, teasing murmur, “I don’t believe that for an instant, Miss Hooper”. 

Molly shivered slightly where she sat, a thrill of something simultaneously ice cold and blazing hot shooting down her spine at Irene’s words. She wasn’t sure what to think, but she felt incredibly content.


	3. In Which Irene Pursues Molly into a Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another irene pov. hope you guys like it!

Irene Adler returned to her seat, a fire blazing in her head. Sherlock Holmes hadn’t lied when he had said that Molly Hooper was something unexpected. The girl was sublime. Irene could not help but relive the way her eyelids had fluttered closed, as though overcome, when Irene had allowed her lips to graze the poor girl’s ear. 

And now, perched at the edge of a rickety wooden stool, her dark hair falling in wavy tendrils to pool around her pale throat, Molly looked the part of some sort of classical Greek goddess. Those lips gently parted, her deep, warm brown eyes thrust wide open to catch the sunlight. Irene did not want to tear her eyes away. She was conscious of how her blood seemed to circulate, pulsing in her temples, and thrumming to her heart, pumping the ecstasy that was Molly Hooper through her extremities, her desire just under the skin. 

She watched the girl intently for a few long minutes, and she felt vaguely that perhaps she would not mind observing the girl for an eternity. She was oddly conscious of how Molly kept trying to steal glances at her when she thought Irene was not aware. The girl’s interest, as naïve and platonic as it probably was, made it hard for Irene to think coherently, and so she allowed the silence to drag on. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock was working feverishly, a look of immense concentration etched upon his face. His hands seemed to dance upon the canvas, and his eyes were ablaze with something all consuming. 

Unable to bear the purgatory that had opened up between the three of them, Irene rose from her chair again, taking care to infuse her movements with extra grace, and just a hint of seduction in case Molly was watching. She moved to look at the portrait over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Irene knew a bit about art—nothing that would particularly distinguish her as a critic of any kind, but she knew at first glance that this picture was a masterpiece. Sherlock had somehow captured all of the golden fire that seemed to flash in Molly’s lovely brown eyes, and he had managed to replicate those lips which were parted only slightly—her mouth was entirely too suggestive. 

But there was something else in the wet oils that seemed to strike her like a blade to the chest: perhaps it was something about her skin, painted milky and smooth, or something in the tilt of her chin slightly upwards, that seemed to scream of innocence and a pale kind of purity that Irene had not even noticed before Sherlock had painted it. 

As she gazed upon the painted face of Molly Hooper, Irene felt as though she suddenly knew the girl in a way she could not of from simply looking at the real her. Cautiously, she allowed her eyes to rake over Molly’s slender form, still leaning limply against her stool. How had she missed the innocence, the purity, the absolute naturalness of this creature before? 

She could not explain it, but for some reason, the portrait filled her with a sense of dread. Something about the painted Molly made her speak without really thinking. 

“I think you are right, Miss Hooper, about people being too afraid to really know themselves”, she began in her low, melodic voice, “Imagine if every person was unafraid of their true nature—if they could be perfectly themselves, voice every thought, express every feeling, the world would be an entirely different place”.

Molly was looking at her again, and Irene was struck by how her eyes seemed at once in and out of focus. They seemed only to be full of Irene. 

“I don’t quite understand where you’re going with this”, Molly laughed lightly, her gaze still locked on Irene’s. 

“I was reminded, as I was looking at this picture of you, that people, and often women in particular, are punished for their refusals. Every impulse that we try to suppress because it isn’t proper or correct--- every stifled desire roots itself in the mind and poisons us. Perhaps the only way to rid oneself entirely of temptation is to yield to it”. Irene felt herself speaking out of passion, was vaguely aware that her hands were moving about feverishly as she tried to explain what about Molly’s portrait had so affected her. 

Molly stared at her, eyes thrust open, a look of gradual awareness coming over her features.

Irene rushed to finish her thought, “And you, Miss Hooper, you yourself, with all of your pale purity and tamed speech, have surely had passions that have made you afraid, dreams that have been branded into your memory, fantasies that are never to be voiced---“ 

All at once Molly seemed to find her voice, and as she spoke Irene registered with some surprise the panic that seemed to cloud her entire visage, from the frantic eyes to the chalky, white cheeks, “Miss Adler I must ask that you stop with this at once. You have confused me, I’m not sure how to respond”.

The girl looked suddenly very small, and almost on the verge of tears. She lifted one trembling hand to cover her eyes, and her shoulders curled in on themselves. 

Irene dared not say a word. The girl had responded perfectly. 

The two of them sat like that for a bit, and Irene was strangely conscious of the fact that Molly was trying hard not to succumb to sobs. 

At last, Molly withdrew her hand and said, voice shaking and high-pitched like a child’s, “Sherlock, it’s simply suffocating in here. I’m craving a breath of fresh air; I think I’ll go take a turn about the garden. You don’t mind do you?”, and she had leaped off her stool and out the glass French doors that opened out into the back garden. Sherlock did not seem to hear her question, and in any case she did not wait for a response.

For a long minute, Irene sat perfectly still, running over the exchange of words that had shifted the relationship between the two women in such a short span of time. Her whole speech had been a kind of bluff, designed to draw Molly out, to see if she was as respectable, and upright as she appeared on canvas, or as wild as she seemed to Irene in reality. Apparently, the girl had something to hide where her desires were concerned, something she was perhaps hiding from herself. 

Sherlock’s voice jilted her from her thoughts and hazy wonderings, “Adler, where did she disappear off to?” He sounded irritated, but also strangely removed, as though half of his conscious mind was still rooted in the painting he was nearly finished with.

“Didn’t you hear her, darling? She needed some air. Went out to the garden. I shall go and retrieve her if you like?”

Sherlock’s eyes did not move from the canvas as he nodded his head distractedly, “Yes, please do that”.  
* * *

Irene found Molly bent over a rose bush, her nose thrust deeply into one particularly sumptuous bloom. She looked almost peaceful, save for the way her fingers shook at the flower’s stalk, and traced the piercing thorns. Molly inhaled the light floral aroma as though it were some kind of drug. 

Irene put a tentative hand upon the younger girl’s shoulder, “You’re smart to do that. Nothing remedies wounds to the psyche like the senses.” She tried to make her voice sound warm, and nonthreatening, but the girl jerked away from her touch, her eyes rimmed in a delicate pink that only accentuated her natural loveliness. 

“I’m sorry if what I said in their touched you dreadfully”, apologies did not come naturally to Irene, but something about the girl’s expression made her penitent. Irene realized with a thrill of horror, that it wasn’t just a kind of desire she felt for the girl, but also something protective. How queer, indeed. 

She watched, unable to tear her gaze away as Molly looked at the neighboring lilac blooms as though they were the most interesting and tragic things she had ever seen. She was not expecting Molly to speak, and so when she did, Irene felt a surge of surprise.

“You have the strangest effect on me”, she spoke without meeting Irene’s gaze, in a cool monotone, so quietly, that Irene had to move slightly closer to hear what came next, “It frightens me. I can’t explain—I’ve been spending a great deal of time with Sherlock over the past few weeks, but our friendship, if I can call it that, has never changed me. I’ve spent only an hour or so with you, and I feel like the definition of what I was is slipping, like I can’t hold on to what I am supposed to be. It’s so strange”. 

She grew quiet again, but Irene did not speak. The Woman knew that silence could act as a vacuum, drawing out more than one intended to say. Sure enough, Molly’s lovely pink lips opened again, and she spoke. 

“Your voice reminds me of music. Certain kinds of music make me feel like I’m going mad, because I can’t think my way out of them rationally. It’s like that when I’m talking to you. There were things I never let myself acknowledge in my girlhood, that I can see so suddenly now. Things about--- desires I suppose, but also other things. I can’t explain it all now. I can’t believe a perfect stranger had to show me myself”. She trailed off, her eyelids fluttering in the receding light, and Irene wondered at the marvelous creature that stood before her. 

She placed a hand upon her own lips, as though to unconsciously silence herself.

The gesture triggered something in Irene that moved her to speak as well, “Miss Hooper, I am sure you understand more than you think you do.” 

Molly moved in closer to the older woman so that they were separated by only a few inches. Irene felt her breath catch as they stood like that together against the deepening twilight. For the most fleeting of moments, Irene wondered what it would be like to press her lips against Molly Hooper’s. 

And then very suddenly, Molly shuddered, as though waking from a nightmare, and tore herself away from Irene. She put a few steps between them, her whole body trembling, “I should be getting back to Sherlock. He gets so absurd when anyone delays his creative process”. Irene watched as Molly plastered on a terribly false smile, and slipped inside. 

Alone in the back garden, Irene ran a hand through her own dark hair. At least the rain had stopped, and the garden smelled fresh and alive. She decided that before the night was out, she would ask Molly to accompany her to the theatre the following evening. She knew without even having to think, that she needed to know the girl. There was something vital in their shared glances, in the way the girl spoke out truth like it was nothing.


	4. In Which Molly Feels Uncertain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tensions are building between molly and irene. Lemme know what you guys think! :)

Molly tried hard to act casual as she resumed her seat on the stool. Glancing up at her with annoyance, Sherlock let out a noise of impatience and she resisted the urge to storm out of 221B altogether. The thought of sitting through even another minute with Irene’s clear blue-green eyes glued to her was enough to make her clench her quivering hands into fists. 

She couldn’t stop shaking. She held out her long, pale fingers before her face so that she could observe with some wonder the way that they trembled. Molly couldn’t explain why she was reacting this way to the woman’s presence. There was nothing logically about The Woman that should have her feeling weak about the legs, dizzy in the head, unable to calm the radical rhythm echoing inside of her chest. Her heart was beating too fast, and Molly was certain it wasn’t healthy. She felt almost as though she were being forced to endure a kind of vaguely pleasant panic attack, if such a thing were possible. 

“Darling, you have the most dreadful expression. I can’t have it ruining this piece. I’m so close to being done. Do you think you could revert to that awe-struck, uncertain look Irene inspired in you when she was speaking to you a few minutes ago?” Sherlock smirked as the words rolled off his tongue. Molly blushed, and after a moment contorted her face into a scowl.

“Like this, Holmes?” she glared at him with a kind of fierce mirth in her brown irises. Holmes exhaled loudly as he looked at his muse, who seemed to hide behind her petulance a strange sort of anxiety. 

“Cheeky”. For a moment his eyebrows knit together in confusion, trying to determine the source of her change in mood. Molly was rarely anything less than delightful. It was one of the few things about her that Sherlock felt confused by, given the nature of her upbringing, which had been anything but delightful. 

At that moment, Irene Adler seemed to float back into the room, and Sherlock had his answer. He observed the way that Molly quickly tilted her face away from the Woman, even as she allowed a curtain of her dark hair to obscure her eyes. Irene meanwhile was looking at Molly with a perfectly apathetic face. 

In a voice that was almost too indifferent, Irene murmured loud enough that both Molly and the painter could hear, “Sherlock, darling, I was wondering if perhaps you would like to come with me to the theatre this evening. Lord Lestrade has extended me an invitation to sit with him in his box, and he says I can bring a guest”. 

Against her better judgment, Molly allowed herself to glance up at the woman. For a brief moment, she felt a sting in her breast at her exclusion from Irene’s invitation. She shook herself internally at her own foolishness. She hardly knew The Woman, and after all, there was no reason for Irene to invite her out when she was clearly an old friend of Sherlock’s. Besides, there was something about Irene that made Molly feel out of control and panicky. It simply didn’t make sense, this strange physical desire to be closer to Irene while every logical thought begged her to keep The Woman at a safe distance. But the feeling of hurt persisted as Sherlock allowed a pointed silence to follow Irene’s offer. 

“No, I don’t think I can spare the evening. Terribly sorry, Miss Adler”. 

“What have you to do that’s more interesting than spending a night with me?” Was Molly imagining it, or was there something suggestive in the way Irene said ‘spend the night’? Something that was like envy, but could surely not be envy, erupted in her chest. 

“I want to finish this piece. I think it may be my best work to date. Miss Hooper is an absolute vision in oil”. Molly breathed in sharply. She could not in that instant, imagine refusing Irene Adler anything. 

“And in the flesh as well, Sherlock. But you really won’t come with me tonight? Who shall I take, then? I surely can’t show up alone. Lestrade would read far too much into it”. 

Molly realized that she was staring at Irene with far too much intensity, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. She felt like a snake being charmed by the melody slipping from between those shimmering crimson mouth. 

As if it were someone else talking with her lips, Molly watched as she spoke directly to Irene, “Take me”.

Irene’s gaze landed instantly on Molly’s face and for a long moment her eyes seemed to be on fire. The younger girl tried to hide the shiver that that look inspired. 

“Take you, Miss Hooper?” there was something in Irene’s voice that seemed almost tremulous, vaguely reverent, if Molly wasn’t mistaken. A blush invaded her white cheeks. 

“Yes, my grandfather never let me go to the theatre when he was alive. He says that the stage isn’t healthy for women, since acting is all about deception and women are far too prone to lies as it is. But I should very much like to go, I think”. Molly felt her blush intensify under the intensity of Irene’s gaze. 

“Than I should very much like to take you as my date, Miss Hooper”, at the word date, chills sprung up on Molly’s arms, and she felt strangely lightheaded. How stupid she was acting. 

“Absolutely not”, Sherlock’s voice suddenly interrupted the two women, “Miss Adler, remember what I told you earlier this afternoon. I trust you. Do not give me reason to revoke that trust”. 

Molly looked at Irene piercingly, trying to understand what Sherlock meant by such a cryptic statement. 

“God, Sherlock”, Irene muttered, and Molly was taken aback at the oath that flowed so smoothly from Irene’s lips, “I do believe Molly is intelligent enough to be making her own decisions. She’s not a pet for you to order about whenever you feel the urge. And neither am I. If Molly wants to come out with me tonight, than I shall most certainly be taking her”. 

“This has nothing to do with intelligence, and everything to do with naivety. I implore you, don’t put ideas into her head that she could live without. She has the potential to live a life utterly uncorrupted. Don’t rob her of any peace she might find in future”. 

Molly was utterly baffled by the exchange, but judging from Irene’s eyes, which flared with anger, and the look of wounded pride that flashed across Sherlock’s, she had the impression that the two were speaking of something that held great emotional turmoil for both of them.

“Sherlock, Miss Adler, I assure you that I am quite capable of speaking for myself. I shall be going to the theatre tonight, and that is the end of it”. 

Sherlock shook his head, and to her surprise, Molly saw that his eyes were blazing with a kind of anguish she had only seen him exude when he was speaking of Dr. Watson. How intriguing it all was. 

Irene flashed her a brief smile, filled with warmth and something else that made Molly’s breath catch in her throat. That smile felt like a promise, although of what exactly, she could not say. 

“I shall collect you tonight then, Miss Hooper. I’ll have my man take down your address and be there at seven sharp.”. 

“Alright, Miss Adler”, Molly could not help smiling as the two women arranged their meeting, Molly still posing as Sherlock put the finishing touches on the portrait.

At last, Sherlock laid down his brush, and rubbed his eyes wearily with one of his white hands. Molly approached the portrait tremulously, noticing as she stood that she was still rather shaky about the knees. She tried desperately to quiet her frantic mind, to shake away the loose thoughts of Irene Adler as she readied herself to look upon the latest portrait. 

Sherlock stepped aside, and the two women moved to take a look. Molly was aware of two things immediately. First, was Irene’s sudden intake of breath, and the way the older woman stretched out a hand as if to caress the cheek of the Molly that was painted upon the canvas. The gesture made Molly feel even more feverish, more aware of how her hear was racing against her ribs. 

Second, was the sheer beauty of the portrait itself. Molly knew that she was beautiful. In fact, her loveliness was the first thing that she seemed to know about herself growing up. She had always been terribly conscious of her appearance, because her Grandfather refused to let her forget it. She looked, he had remarked at least once a day, far too much like her wretched harlot of a mother. Beautiful, but utterly depraved. “She smiled like sin, just as you do”, was her father’s favorite thing to remark upon, even when Molly was just a child and would laugh too loudly or get too excitable. 

The portrait was another matter entirely, though. Sherlock had seemed to reveal in paint everything that was pure and good about Molly, in addition to what was beautiful. As ever, there was a kind of wildness in her gaze, and in the tilt of her chin, the way her mouth was slightly opened. 

Molly could have sworn that Irene said something then, something that sounded almost like, “There’s no way I could leave you alone now”. 

But that was such a strange thing for her to say. Molly shook her head, to dislodge the flurry of unwanted feelings that suddenly laid siege upon her heart. 

“Like a nouveau Helen. Ah, the sumptuousness of those lips and lovely tangle of your hair! A face to launch a thousand ships”, Sherlock whispered to himself, “except I hope that you are spared Helen’s torment”. 

“Whatever do you mean by torment, Sherlock? This is not Troy, and I am not at the center of a war.” Molly asked, feeling uncomfortable with a comparison that seemed to imply she was the loveliest creature in the world. 

“By torment, I mean the love that dare not speak its name. Helen fell in love with a man who was not her husband, and such a love could never be. To love someone one cannot have is absolute anguish”. 

To her surprise, Irene Adler threw back her head and let out a charming, melodic laugh, “Oh, Sherlock, you are far too dramatic, and far too entrenched in the tragedies of the past. Molly has no idea of what you are trying to communicate to her, and so you must stop trying to warn her with your subtle hints. You are not brave enough to warn her outright, so do stop now before I get irritated”.

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Molly tried to hide her confusion. She knew the two were bickering about something that went much farther back than that afternoon. She determined to find out what exactly Sherlock was so worried about in Irene. Why he seemed so terrified at the idea of her corrupting Molly. 

In the silence that seemed to take up a tangible space in the room they shared, Molly broke in “Oh, it is absolutely marvelous, Sherlock, although I’m afraid you’ve painted me far more beautiful than I actually am.”

Molly marveled at how the strange mix of emotions inside of her failed to show itself on the face of the utterly peaceful Molly who was painted with such care and grace inside the frame.


	5. In Which Irene Watches Molly Watch a Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i improvised a bit here. let me know what you guys think! :)

At exactly seven that evening, Irene lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall loudly onto an impressive mahogany door. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably in her chest, and her white fingers trembled as she glanced around the looming façade of Molly’s ancestral home. 

Sherlock had implied that Molly came from a good family, but Irene had not been expecting this kind of opulence. The house was an imposing structure of stone that was somehow formidable and uninviting at the same time. 

It was strange, but Irene could not imagine a younger Molly growing up here, in this cold, stony place. Everything seemed too large for life, too surrounded by shadow. It contrasted too brutally with Molly’s lightness of disposition. 

Did Molly live here alone, with just servants for company? She searched her memory for references to Molly’s family. The girl had mentioned a grandfather in such a way that Irene could only assume he was a central figure in her life. But she had mentioned him in the past tense. How long had he been dead? 

If the grandfather had been instrumental in raising Molly, as Irene suspected, where were Molly’s parents? For some reason, Irene thought they might have been dead. She must have heard something, but it would have been a long time ago, before she even knew Molly. Did she have siblings?

Irene bit back a smile at an image that crept suddenly into her head, of a young Molly throwing her arms around some hypothetical younger brother, with her same beautiful chestnut hair. 

She heard the careful click of footsteps on the other side of the door. It would swing open any second now, and Irene would have to exchange polite conversation with Molly’s butler. Irene hated pleasantries.

But when the door was finally flung open, it was a breathless, slightly pink-cheeked Molly who stood before her. She hung loosely on the edge of the entryway, smiling radiantly at Irene, as her small hands rushed to push her hair behind her ears. She was wearing a cobalt blue dress that highlighted the slimness of her waist, while also hinting at curves in other place. A patterned silver cover-up hung around her narrow and otherwise bare shoulders. 

Irene felt her chest fill with a kind of frantic energy at the sight of Molly, suddenly only a foot away. 

“I’m terribly sorry, we normally have a butler to manage the door, but I sent   
Carson home early. His anniversary is tonight and his wife is such a sweet creature, and I figured we could manage alright without—“, Molly rambled slightly, her lips still caught in an adorable half-smile until Irene cut her off. 

“I understand, Miss Hooper.”, and then to fill the silence that ensued for a second between them and satisfy her curiosity, she asked, “Do you live here alone, save the servants?”

Molly’s pink-tinged cheeks grew a little more flushed as she replied, “Well, yes. Ever since my grandfather died last year I’ve managed the place on my own. It gets a little lonely at night when some of the servants go home”, and then seeming to realize the somber tone that had crept into her voice, she quickly added, “But, I have a couple of ladies maids, who stay here downstairs full-time, and a gardener who lives on the property as well”. 

She laughed nervously, ducking her head so as to keep from looking Irene in the eyes. The older woman noted the gesture. The girl clearly felt uncomfortable speaking about herself. What made her so fearful speaking about herself? Irene determined to draw her out a bit, as Molly ushered her into an impressive foyer with marble floors and a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

“I prefer being alone personally, but I can’t picture you with all your charm being isolated in this place night after night. No brothers or sisters? Cousins?”

A shadow of something flickered in Molly’s eyes, something unreadable that made Irene even more curious about the girl’s backstory.

“None at all” Molly answered with an overly bright air before pulling the door closed behind Irene, “It is isolating sometimes. It’s almost enough to make me go out and find a husband— accept the offers of one of the men I’ve rejected”. 

The reference to men interested in Molly sent a thrill of something like jealousy through Irene’s blood, and without thinking she uttered, “You won’t feel any less lonely if you accept a marriage proposal like that. People are always alone, even when they’re married, even when they’re completely surrounded by other people, and have children and think they have friends. It doesn’t matter how many people you think you know, the truth is you can never really know anyone and no one can ever really know you.”

“How terribly cynical of you, Miss Adler”. Molly’s look of surprise was quickly interrupted by her usual playful smile. 

And it was something in the gently teasing nature of her voice that drove the older woman to whisper, “Please call me Irene”. 

The younger girl’s smile grew even more luminous at these words, lowering her eyes shyly at the sudden show of intimacy, despite Irene’s previous words about not really knowing anyone.

“Irene”, Molly tasted the way the name sounded on her tongue before responding, “Then you must call me Molly”. 

Irene watched Molly with thinly veiled absorption as the girl dropped the cover-up onto a divan in a parlor room just past the foyer. Her bare shoulders were creamy and luminous, and the way Molly pulled uncertainly at the edge of her hair made Irene swallow back the tide of feelings that suddenly came over her. 

* * *

 

As they settled into the box overlooking the stage, and Molly slipped gracefully into the seat next to Irene, the older woman felt a thrill of excitement, and a pang of something deeper in her stomach as the girl scooted her chair closer so that the two women’s arms touched slightly. The girl smelled of vanilla and orange blossom, and the effect was quite intoxicating. Even Lord Lestrade’s overly obvious interest in Irene didn’t bother The Woman tonight. 

Lord Lestrade had eagerly assented when Irene had told him that her guest for the evening would be Molly Hooper. Lestrade, Irene knew, was just glad that she had chosen a female to accompany her out. He had always had a bit of a crush on the woman, something that Irene had encouraged just enough to receive the occasional favor out of the man. 

The lights dimmed, and the red velvet curtains parted to reveal an impressive wooden set painted to look like the great stone façade of Elsinore Castle. For a few moments, Irene was reminded of Molly’s own forbidding family manner. 

Irene smiled to herself in the dark as she heard Molly inhale in wonder, and felt her move a little closer. 

The younger girls lips brushed the Woman’s ear and Irene had to keep a soft moan from escaping her lips as she whispered, “Thank you, for taking me tonight. I know I’m no Sherlock, but I hop you’ll have a good time nonetheless”.

Irene’s heart fluttered at the sincerity and needless insecurity in the girl’s words. She turned her face, a slight smile dancing upon her lips and murmured “Darling, I wouldn’t trade you for anyone tonight. It was my intention that Sherlock should refuse my offer, and that you would come with me. I think you’ll like this play. It’s macabre and poignant and terribly dramatic, a perfect piece to watch as your theatre debut”. 

Molly laughed softly, and Irene felt a thrill of total surprise when the girl intertwined her arm with the older woman’s. She moved closer and laid a gentle head on Irene’s shoulder, “You’re too kind to me, Irene. I won’t ever forget it. I feel already as though we are going to be remarkable friends”. 

Irene stiffened at first from his unexpected display of affection, but as the play began, and Molly continued to hold tightly to her arm, Irene relaxed into the embrace.

It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself over and over again, trying to dislodge the overwhelming happiness that had taken root in her breast from the very moment she had seen Molly fling open the door earlier in the evening. She noted each gasp that Molly took, each cry of surprise and moan of disappointment that flew from the younger girl’s lips, all the while tying to keep her breathing steady so that the younger girl would have no reason to guess at her true feelings. 

When ‘Hamlet’ finally ended, and the lights went on again, Molly leaned farther into Irene’s side, turning her wide expressive eyes on the woman with a kind of feverish wonderment. 

“My heart is beating so fast”, she whispered just loud enough so that only the Woman could hear. Lestrade was pouring himself a drink and talking to another gentleman, not that Irene cared at all with the lovely creature speaking to her so reverently. 

“Oh?” Irene tried to make her voice sound indifferent, even though her own chest seemed to be electrified. 

“It was magnificent, Irene. I feel so strange, so taken in”, Molly was shaking slightly, pressed a she was into Irene’s side.

Irene laughed slightly at the girl’s obvious wonderment. Molly’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were alive with the tragedy that had transpired before them only moments before.

Molly said something so quietly that Irene couldn’t catch it.

“What, darling?”

“I could have sworn he blew me a kiss…” Molly repeated a little louder, before burrowing her red face in her fingers. 

Irene felt her heart stop in its racing, and melancholy filled her soul. She knew without having to inquire what Molly was referring to. Right before the curtain had closed, the lead actor, the handsome, dark haired man who had so skillfully played Hamlet, had thrown a rose out at the crowd and blown a kiss in the direction of their box. Irene had been too focused on the feel of Molly’s warm skin on her arm to be concerned that it had obviously been aimed at Molly. She had not for some reason, expected Molly to have much cared either.

“Stupid”, Irene clenched her eyes shut, against the way her whole chest felt pained. She had been foolish to assume Molly would ever feel the same way about her as she did for the younger girl. Most women preferred men. God, what a fool she had been!

“What?” Molly pushed herself off of Irene, her cheeks still pink, but her eyes wide with concern. 

Irene forced her gaze to meet Molly’s, and instantly felt as though she had been struck by lightning. Those eyes captured her. 

“Nothing, darling. If you think the actor flirted with you, we should try to find him in the foyer. Now that the play’s over he’ll no doubt wish to talk with you”. Her voice came out flat and cold, but at least it didn’t waver.

Molly seemed to notice the change Irene’s change in demeanor, but was too focused on the actor to inquire further.

“He was so dreadfully handsome, and his eyes are so intense. I doubt he’d want anything to do with me”, Molly shook her head, obviously embarrassed. 

“He’d be a fool not to make a move, Molly”, Irene felt the bitterness in her words, but couldn’t suppress them. She realized that what she had said sounded flirtatious, but it hardly mattered because Molly clearly wasn’t interested. 

Molly glanced sharply at Irene’s eyes for a moment, and then--- was Irene imagining it? The younger girl’s gaze seemed to drop to Irene’s lips with a sudden unreadable expression. Molly shook herself, as though to clear her thoughts, and stood up abruptly. 

“Well, let’s get downstairs then. I’ve always wanted to fall in love”. 

Irene nodded, and took Molly’s proffered hand as the two made their exit from the box.


	6. In Which Molly Chooses Irene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly struggles to explain why she prefers Irene's company to the flirtations of handsome actor Jim Moriarty (aka just a lot of clueless infatuation on her part). Thank you so much for the feedback, it means so much to me! Let me know what you guys think about this bit.

Molly was delirious as the curtains fell, hiding most of the stage and the striking dark eyed actor from view. Her head was swimming, and the scent of Irene’s perfume was everywhere, didn’t help. She felt euphoric, completely embodied but also strangely flung out of space and time. 

As the two women got up to leave the box, Molly had somehow managed to take Irene’s hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She tried to make herself think of the handsome mustachioed actor who Irene thought would be waiting for her in the foyer. 

He seemed to promise a kind of romance she had never experienced before. The way he had blown a kiss just for her and no one else out of the whole audience would have been enough to have a younger Molly head over heels, but for some reason, tonight all she could think about was the scent of Irene, the feel of her hand as they walked down a long corridor. She shook herself forcefully, as some ambivalence about her complicated feelings for the older woman cast a cloud over her otherwise brilliant happiness. 

For a moment, as the two started descending the stairs into the foyer, Molly replayed the cold, vaguely sterilized expression in Irene’s usually delightfully passionate eyes when Molly had brought up the actor. Perhaps Irene was jealous because she herself harbored some sort of crush on the man who had so convincingly played Hamlet? But that was absurd, wasn’t it? Irene hardly seemed like the type to be jealous of anyone, even Molly. 

Molly tried to catch the older Woman’s eyes as they made their way into the crowds congregating after the show, but Irene seemed to be purposely avoiding her gaze. For some reason, the Woman’s sudden disaffection chilled Molly’s to the core, and made her feel oddly disconnected from the joy that had taken her over so recently. 

“Irene, have I done something? If you want we don’t have to meet with the actor, I’m sure it was all part of some empty gesture.” Molly cringed as she heard the note of distress that had crept into her voice. 

“No, Molly. If you like him, you should talk to him. You’re young and lovely, and he’s young and lovely. It seems a match made in heaven, and I absolutely insist that we find him”. Even though Irene’s words were reassuring, her tone retained the same harsh detachment as before. Perhaps Molly was just being stupid. She just wanted to placate the Older Woman. If Irene thought she should talk to the man, than she should do it. 

At that moment, Irene’s grasp on Molly’s hand suddenly tightened and became vice-like. Following the older woman’s gaze, Molly found herself staring directly into the comely face of the man who had moments before been the mad King Hamlet. Molly almost unconsciously found herself clinging tighter to Irene by the lifeline of her fingers. Irene shook the younger girl off roughly, before plastering a stunning smile on her face and making to approach the actor. 

Molly felt a lump rise in her throat at the Older Woman’s sudden change in behavior. She had grown from warm and engaging to incredibly cold in an instant, and now she seemed to be all charm and soft, feminine laughter and glittering eyes. Molly had to suppress a flare of something like jealousy, as the older woman laid an elegant hand on the man’s muscled shoulder. But who she was jealous of-- that was confusing.

“Moriarty. Jim Moriarty, at your service ”,he was saying in a lilting, mocking voice, and then as his eyes landed purposefully on Molly, his red lips spread into a broad smile, “And yours as well, Mademoiselle. I noticed your exquisite loveliness from the stage, and I must admit that I could hardly continue in my monologue. You are quite a vision Miss—“, he trailed off, raising his impeccable eyebrows questioningly. 

Molly found that she could not form a coherent reply. Her eyes were still fixated on Irene’s hand on Moriarty’s shoulder. For some reason it made her feel a little faint, and terribly fragile. 

“Molly Hooper. Her name is Molly Hooper, and she was just raving about your performance, weren’t you darling?”, Irene intervened smoothly, her eyes raking over Molly for some answer to her silence. 

“Y-yes. I was quite impressed with how you managed to capture his dissent into insanity so poignantly. I felt the horror and tragedy of it in my very bones, I’m sure”. Molly attempted to recover some of her lost poise, but the way Irene had so casually called her darling was making it hard for her to act with her usual eloquence. 

Moriarty however, seemed not to notice how flustered she was. In fact, his smile had broadened even more noticeably, and he had taken a step closer to the younger girl, effectively dislodging Irene’s arm. From the way the Older Woman’s eyes flickered with a mix of satisfaction and something else, perhaps anguish, the gesture had not gone unnoticed. 

“I’m glad you could appreciate my execution. Although I must say, I owe everything to the Bard himself. The lines are so ingenious even the most terrible actor would have a hard time relaying them without bringing across some of their hidden power”. For some reason, his words came across more unctuous than anything, but Molly forced herself to smile and nod, as though they had appealed to her. If Irene liked this gentleman, than perhaps she ought to try harder. 

“How marvelous! Hamlet is one of my favorite of his plays, although I hadn’t seen it preformed until this evening”, Molly muttered grasping at conversation. 

Moriarty nodded vaguely, but he didn’t really seem to be listening to what Molly was saying. His eyes slipped over her body in a way that did not seem altogether descent. Molly felt her skin crawl, but she forced herself to keep up some semblance of civility.

Irene piped in, perhaps noticing Molly’s sudden tenseness, “And what about you Jim? Do you have a favorite role to preform?”

“Othello is particularly dear to my heart. I have a certain predilection for playing Iago”, and then he contorted his face into a sudden mask of cruelty and rasped in the villain’s terrifying voice, “I am not what I am”, before reverting back to his easy grin. 

“How fitting”, Molly muttered in a terribly curt tone before she could stop herself. Moriarty threw back his head and laughed, apparently amused by her words and taking them as a kind of complement. But Irene shot her a piercing look. Molly met her gaze and it seemed for a moment that it was as though it was just the two of them in the theatre foyer. There was something new in Irene’s look. Something in her eyes that burned and quivered and flickered. It looked almost like hope. 

“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’m frightfully tired. I really must head back Molly. Will you be joining me, or –I’m sure Lestrade would be willing to call you a coach back if you want to stay?” There was a sense of vulnerability about the way Irene spoke. Her voice was firm and soft and never wavered, but her eyes were full of a kind of need Molly couldn’t explain.

“No”, the words jumped readily to her lips, “No I’m definitely coming with you. The production was very emotionally draining, I could probably fall asleep standing up”, Molly was lying. She had never felt more awake than when Irene looked directly at her with those pale blue irises. But the thought of parting so early in the evening was enough to make her slightly frantic. 

Irene rewarded her by flashing the most radiant smile Molly had ever seen. For a moment Molly could not tear her eyes away from those vermillion lips. She shook herself, and feeling bold, she wove her fingers through the Older Woman’s. She wondered for a moment how she had managed so long without the physical contact between them. How strange this all was. She had never had a friendship quite like this.

Moriarty’s smile had slipped into a kind of scowl, reducing the attractiveness of his face quite dramatically. But Molly hardly cared. Irene seemed taken aback by Molly’s gesture of friendliness, but pleased. Her pale cheeks were suffused with a blush so achingly lovely, that the younger girl was fixated for a moment on the sheer beauty of her. 

“Let’s go, darling”, Irene murmured softly into her ear, and Molly let her lead the way out of the theatre, her heart hammering strangely in her chest.


End file.
